


Good God, let me give you my life

by Splatx



Series: Harper: bastard, orphan, son of a whore [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: BDSM, Fix-It, Future BDSM, M/M, Online Protagonist is Dutch's nephew, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:34:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29465832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splatx/pseuds/Splatx
Summary: Still, he couldn’t help but to imagine the man on his knees, his cheeks flushed and his lips swollen. His hands bound behind him with that gorgeous red sash that tightened his dark shirt around his waist, wrapped around and around and around his arms in intricate patterns, his bandana loose around his throat so he could tug on it, hair mussed from being tugged on.
Relationships: Josiah Trelawney/Red Dead Online Protagonist
Series: Harper: bastard, orphan, son of a whore [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1999861
Kudos: 9





	1. my heart's already sinned

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Bisbee Guide to All Matters Etiquette for Young People in Social Crises](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18887023) by [radicalskeletal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radicalskeletal/pseuds/radicalskeletal). 



Trelawney was used to riding into camp and meeting someone new.

He flittered in and out like a bird, there and gone as his heart beckoned him. He was as Morgan, always returning no matter how long he was gone, but he wasn’t like Morgan in that he stayed away for only a week or two at a time, sometimes was gone for months, even a year at one time. He didn’t live and breathe for Dutch like the others did, lived only for himself. He owed Dutch, as they all did, but he held no true loyalties to any but himself.

He’d met Williamson and Escuella on riding in - Williamson had pulled a gun on him - though he’d been there when they’d taken young Abigail in. Bell had been a very _unpleasant_ surprise, though he hadn’t minded Smith as much.

...really, most of the gang he’d ridden in to discover.

Although McKay had been a bit of a surprise - Dutch’s nephew by blood? He hadn’t thought Dutch had any blood relatives left, if he was being honest. But the boy stood out from the mongrels of the camp as Dutch did, his hair smoothed down and his skin kept clean, smooth shaven and clothing free of any mess, and he’d immediately drawn Josiah’s eye.

And then he’d stood as Dutch introduced them, a warmness Josiah hadn’t heard in years in the man’s voice, and stooped down into a bow so theatrical as to be fitting for Trelawney himself, and Josiah had _wanted._

  
  


Josiah had seen how Dutch protected his nephew.

The men had fought over it - _“I’m not a child, Uncle Dutch!” “I’m not saying you are!”_ \- and more than once the younger man had ridden out for days, even weeks, leaving Dutch to pull his hair out with worry. Once, only once, had Bell dared to insinuate the man might be a rat after a job went wrong when he worked on it, and he’d nursed a black eye for a week—

—and Josiah, who had seen the turn his friend had been taking, allowed himself to hope.

But when Williamson tried to offer McKay a drink in that fumbling way of his, and Escuella flirted with him as he flirted with anyone, Dutch would be there as if by magic, glowering until they awkwardly went quiet and McKay glared at the man in return. And Josiah knew that if he so much as looked at McKay wrong, Dutch would never forgive him.

Do as I say, after all, and not as I do, after all.

Still, he couldn’t help but to imagine the man on his knees, his cheeks flushed and his lips swollen. His hands bound behind him with that gorgeous red sash that tightened his dark shirt around his waist, wrapped around and around and around his arms in intricate patterns, his bandana loose around his throat so he could tug on it, hair mussed from being tugged on.

Sometimes, he liked to imagine the man on his knees, chin resting on Josiah’s thigh, patiently waiting as Josiah fed him with his fingers. Sipping from a cup he offered him, trusting him and saying his “please’s” and “thank you’s” because, despite all his pomp and neatness and raising up, he could be as coarse as the rest of the gang and needed someone to teach him his manners.

So Josiah tried his best to stay well away from McKay because, as much as he tried, he was sure the man had caught him staring more than once - he couldn’t look away from that sash that cinched tight around his waist, or the way his hair fell in front of his eyes. The way the muscles in his arms flexed as he lifted firewood or swept up little Jack, the bobbing of his adam’s apple as he gulped down a beer or can of peaches.

  
  


But Dutch kept pairing them together.

Every time Trelawney stepped into camp he was sent on a mission with the younger man - apparently they made a striking, formidable pair, and he couldn’t deny it; they did, after all, get results. McKay was content to let Trelawney do the talking, and was as quick to pin you down and put a knife to your throat as he spoke as he was to put a bullet between your eyes. Though he wasn’t as tall as Trelawney, wasn’t as broad as Morgan, he still had wide-set shoulders and a harsh set to his jaw and when he stood just behind Trelawney at his shoulder he could be almost as intimidating as Morgan himself.

And every time he watched McKay straddle a man—

—put his hands around his throat and strangle him—

—or slit his throat—

—or shoot him between his eyes—

—and he was sure he caught the man looking at him as he did—

—he only wanted him more. 


	2. There's an art to life's distractions

Uncle Dutch, Harper knew, had put the fear of god in all of the gang if they so much as thought of looking his way.

Even, to his great amusement, the women. He’d caught Mary-Beth looking his way, and she’d turned red before paling considerably and pricking her finger in her rush to return back to work. The men were more daring, but even they cowed beneath his Uncle’s glare. Sometimes he’d grab a drink and sprawl out next to them just to watch the color drain from their faces as his Uncle slunk up behind him and glowered, not saying a word, until finally they yipped some excuse - or even not a word at all - before squirreling away with their tail between their legs.

Funny? Yes. Annoying?  _ Fucking  _ yes. Uncle Dutch might not have seen him since he was just a toddler, but he  _ had _ grown since then. Had been framed for murder, even! Uncle Dutch had seen him rob, and kill; had brought him along on jobs even though he really hadn’t wanted to.

(Unfortunately for Uncle Dutch, and much to Mr. Matthews’ amusement however, arguing ran through their blood.)

  
  


He wasn’t, contrary to what his Uncle believed, foolish enough to go sniffing around in camp. You don’t shit where you eat, right? Well, horses do, but that’s not their fault and neither here nor there. 

For some of them, though, he just might. Though that might just have been because some of them were  _ too damn nice _ to him, and what’s the difference between being nice and flirting? For Arthur or Charles well, damn, it’d be  _ well _ worth it.

  
  


And then there was Trelawney.

He was never quite sure what to make of the man, and it pissed him well off. The others - the ones that thought themselves  _ brooding _ and  _ mysterious _ or just plain  _ dumb _ weren’t, were easy enough to read. Sad and head-sick, too loyal for his own good, and much the same and far smarter than he seemed.

But Trelawney… Trelawney he could never draw a bead on. The man was much like himself, he tended to think, there and gone, never staying in camp more than a few days. Harper stayed more than that, a week or two, then was gone, but only because he thought his Uncle might drive himself to distraction otherwise (and, being quite honest to himself he, unlike so many of the others, could see the train coming off the tracks, and was hoping to be around to help drive it back) and envied him for that. The man was a posturer, a peacock, as theatrical as Harper tried to force himself to be, and he wanted nothing more than to peel off his layers and see what he truly was beneath his feathers.

And it hadn’t escaped him that the man watched him, too. The way his pupils blew wide when he rolled up his sleeves, the flush that splotched his face when he threw his head back to drink and closed his eyes  _ just enough,  _ the way his jaw dropped, just barely, and he gaped in that pretty way when he strangled a man, or pinned one, or shot one.

(And he was quite happy to put on such a show for him.)

And if on the days he was going to meet Trelawney he brushed his hair a bit neater—

—and made sure his clothes were clean—

—and tried to mind his manners—

—well, who was to know?


End file.
